What Goes Around
by NeverInLove.AlwaysInLust
Summary: This is a story... Not the one you've heard before... This is my story. The one that doesn't get any gratification.
1. Warm Whispers

_You spend your nights alone_

_And he never comes home_

_And every time you call him_

_All you get's a busy tone_

_I heard you found out_

_That he's doing to you_

_What you did to me_

_Ain't that the way it goes_

_This idea randomaly popped into my head while I was listening to spotify and I thought "What better way to break my long ass hiatus?"_

_So while it's not the end of my other story (which I think I may scrap it because it was quite horrible), It's the beginning of another. A sign that while I may be maturing, but I still love to write and give input to how I think things she be in certain stories._

_So this is a Hunger Games inspired ff. It's basically Gale's point of view in certain situations throughout the series, and his life after the series. Enjoy :)_

_I don't own anything but the ideas._

Chapter 1

When I wake up, I look around my room in the dim light. Using the light from the window,

I get up and manuever through the small, dark shadows that cover the bedroom floor. Each shadow

marked a child that was asleep in the quiet.

Once out of the room, I grabbed my game bag and pulled it open, peering inside. 'Two squirrels,'

I thought, making note of it in my mind, 'I can stop by the baker's before heading out to meet Katniss.'

I quickly threw my boots on and pulled my jacket over my shoulder before grabbing the game bag.

Opening the door, I threw a glance over my shoulder, taking in the sight of my siblings asleep before

closing it behind me and heading into town.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal

miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with

hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to

scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But

scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But

today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are

closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

I sighed and cut down an alley that led straight to the Mellarks' bakery. Approaching

the back door, I pulled the string on the game bag, opening it, and knocked on the door. Mr. Mellark

opened it and looked down at the bag, a small smile crossing his face. Wordlessly he took the bag and

walked inside, leaving me in the doorway. Clearing my throat, I looked around outside while I waited, taking

in the sights of the surroundings. He came back a short time later, handing me my game bag and a fresh loaf

of bread. I glanced up at him, confusion etched in my face. He shook his head and whispered good luck before pushing

it to me, closing the door once it was in my hands. I wrapped it in some paper from my bag and stuffed it in my pocket,

the warmth radiating onto my leg.

Turning quietly, I made my way back towards the woods carefully, yawning as I walk. I looked around

as I passed by Katniss' house, noting that I was close to my destination. I only have to pass a few gates to

reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods,

in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbedwire

loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a

deterrent to the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild dogs, lone

cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get

two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so,

I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live.

Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on

my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are

several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost

always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow

log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters

out of District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added

concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But

there's also food if you know how to find it. Katniss' father knew and he taught her

some before he was blown to bits in the same mine explosion that killed my father.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the

severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are

not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by her

father along with a few others that she keeps well hidden in the woods, carefully

wrapped in waterproof covers. In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest

apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of

District 12 if trouble arises.

Once I get over the hill to our place, I sit down and stare out into the wilderness, a small smile playing

on my lips. I hear rustling behind me and turn, Katniss appearing from the woods behind me.

"Hey, Catnip," I say. Her real name is Katniss, but when she first told me, she

had barely whispered it. So I thought she'd said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx

started following her around the woods looking for handouts, it became my official

nickname for her. She finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game.

"Look what I shot," I say, holding up the loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and she

laughs. She take it in her hands, pulls out the arrow, and holds the puncture in the crust

to her nose, inhaling the fragrance.

"Mm, still warm," she says. "What did it cost you?"

"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," I say.

"Even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" she says, "Prim left us a cheese."

"Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real feast." Suddenly I grin and fall into a Capitol accent as I mimic

Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the

reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" I pluck a few blackberries

from the bushes around us. "And may the odds —" I toss a berry in a high arc

toward her.

She catches it in her mouth and breas the delicate skin with her teeth. "— be ever in your favor!"

she finishes with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your

wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I pull out my knife and slice the bread. She could be my sister. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even

have the same gray eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines

resemble one another this way.

Luckily, we aren't or my feelings for her would be strange and inappropriate in every way. She doesn't

realize it, but she has the ability to brighten my day every time I see her. I couldn't help but fall in

love with her after years of sharing secrets and hunting. She makes life in the Seam bearable to me,

which is why I haven't taken off yet. Well her and my family...

I spread the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a

basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook

in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the val ley,

which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in

the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food's

wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting

in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the

day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight's supper.

But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the

names to be called out.

"We could do it, you know," I say quietly.

"What?" She asks.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it,"

I say.

"If we didn't have so many kids," I add quickly.

They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. My two little

brothers and little sister. Her sister Prim. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too,

because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are

always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when

game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to

bed with our stomachs growling.

"I never want to have kids," She says.

"I might. If I didn't live here," I say.

"But you do," she says, irritated.

"Forget it," I snap back.

I sit back and sigh, closing my eyes. I really would have kids... if I didn't live here.

I've thought about it many times. Mostly thinking about what kind of life Katniss and I would

have if we didn't live here. I wouldn't mind building a life with her. She's got the personality that would

mesh well with mine, and she's beautiful to boot.

"What do you want to do?" she asks.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get

something nice for tonight," I say.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of

people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But

at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out

how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey

abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a

gallon of strawberries. She found the patch a few years ago, but I had the idea to

string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an

abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with a more

efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the

Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on

reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. We easily trade six of the fish

for good bread, the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells

bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in

exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere,

but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one

who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on

purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat.

"Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the

Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers

who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the

mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness

for them and can afford our price. The mayor's daughter, Madge, opens the door.

She's in Katniss' year at school. I don't care for her much. She's a little too uppity for

my taste.

Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress,

and her blonde hair is done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.

"Pretty dress," I say.

Madge shoots me a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if I'm

just being ironic. She presses her lips together and then smiles.

"Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's my turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with

me?

"You won't be going to the Capitol," I reply coolly. My eyes land on a small,

circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a

family in bread for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was

just twelve years old."

"That's not her fault," Katniss says.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," I say. Madge's face has become

closed off. She puts the money for the berries in Katniss' hand. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You, too," she says, and the door closes.

We walk toward the Seam in silence. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the

worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year,

your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach

the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool

seven times. That's true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire

country of Panem.

But here's the catch. Say you are poor and starving as we were. You can opt to

add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a

meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of

your family members as well. Me, being eighteen and having been either helping

or singlehandedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have my name in forty-two

times.

You can see why someone like Madge, who has never been at risk of needing a

tessera, can set me off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim

compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even

though the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Madge's

family, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.

I knows my anger at Madge is misdirected.

As we walk, Katniss' glances over at my face curiously, like I'm a bomb about to blow.

I know my rage seem pointless to her, although she'd never say so. Katniss and I divide our spoils,

leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt,

paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

"See you in the square," she says.

"Wear something pretty," I say flatly.

At home, I find my mother and siblings are ready to go. My mother wears a nice enough dress,

though not nearly as extravagent as Madge's. A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt

and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. I pull on my reaping day clothes and sigh, looking in the

mirror.

My mom walks in and just stares at me, her eyes shimmering with tears that threaten to fall. I know that

she's worried, but I shake my head, as if to tell her to be strong. She manages a meak smile before walking back

out to the kitchen to fix lunch. We have a small meal of fish, greens, and bread. My siblings each sneak peeks at me,

as if this is the last time they'll ever see me, and it very well could be. We finish lunch and at one o'clock, we head for

the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if

this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few

places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and

on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holi day feel to

it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of

grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the

effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the

Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds

are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young

ones toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter,

holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one

they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets

on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether

they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing

with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be

informers, and who hasn't broken the law? Katniss and I could be shot on a daily basis for

hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim

the same.

Anyway, Katniss and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger

and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's

quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of about eight

thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch

the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of eighteens from the Seam. We all exchange

terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before

the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one

for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the boys' ball. Fourty-two

of them have Gale Hawthorne written on them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, who's a tall,

balding man, and Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her

scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other

and then look with concern at the empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and

begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the

country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North

America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the

encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what

little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by

thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came

the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were

defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws

to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be

repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising,

each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to

participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena

that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a

period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute

standing wins.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we

watch — this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their

mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.

Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your

children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we

will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the

Hunger Games as a festivity, a sport ing event pitting every district against the

others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their dis trict

will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will

show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while

the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have

had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middleaged

man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible,

staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd

responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket

a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now

District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull

the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and gives her

signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her

pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her

encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here,

although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district

where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire

nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Katniss looking towards me grimly. As

reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am

thinking of Katniss and her twenty names in that big glass ball and how the odds

are not in her favor either. Not compared to a lot of the girls. And maybe she's thinking

the same thing about me because her face stays grim as I turn away.

It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!"

and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand

deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective

breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling apprehensive because I don't

want it to be her. 'Not Katniss,' I think, 'Not Katniss."

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads

out the name in a clear voice. And it's not her.

It's Primrose Everdeen.

_So yeah, I did use alot of the first chapter from the book, but that's because they basically experience the same thing. From here on out, it's smooth sailing of a completely amazing and custom story. I hope ya'll enjoy it and I would love to see some reviews._


	2. Run

There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Prim was one  
slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen so remote that I'd not  
even bothered to worry about her. This will destroy Katniss. She'd done so much  
to ensure that Prim wouldn't get picked. I stepped over and looked back in time to  
see Prim stepping out of her group.

"Prim!" The strangled cry comes out of Katniss' throat, and I froze, unsure of what would  
happen next, "Prim!" I start towards the edge of my group, in case I was needed to calm  
Katniss down. With one sweep of her arm, I see Katniss push Prim behind her.  
"I volunteer!" She gasped out those two words... The two I wish never had to be said.  
"I volunteer as tribute!"

There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in  
decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name  
decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name  
has been pulled from the ball, another eligible boy, if a boy's name has been read,  
or girl, if a girl's name has been read, can step forward to take his or her place. In  
some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are  
eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12, where  
the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are  
all but extinct.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing  
the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then  
we, um . . ." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at Katniss with a pained  
expression on his face. I think he recognizes her in some weird, unknown way.  
"What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

Prim is screaming hysterically behind Katniss. She's wrapped her skinny arms  
around her like a vice. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

I step out of my crowd and nod to the peacekeeper, knowing he won't mind me  
pulling everything together so that Katniss can go up to the stage. I make my way  
towards Katniss and Prim, trying to hide the panic in my eyes.

"Prim, let go," I hear her say harshly, "Let go!"

I pull little Prim off of Katniss and hold her while she thrashes in my arms like a wild  
animal. "Up you go, Catnip," I say softly, in a voice I'm fighting hard to keep steady,  
and then I carries Prim off toward her mother. I reach her and turn around in time to see  
Katniss climb the stairs. My breath hitches in my throat and I look down at the ground,  
walking back to my group.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's  
pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your  
name?"

I hear Katniss swallow hard and reply, "Katniss Everdeen."

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do  
we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest  
tribute!" trills Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not  
even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring.  
Possibly because they know Katniss from the Hob, or knew her father, or have  
encountered Prim, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging  
applause, she stands there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of  
dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not  
condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because most  
everybody in some way has to be grateful it's not their family up there. But a shift  
has occurred since she stepped up to take Prim's place, and now it seems she has  
become some one precious. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd  
touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to  
her. I swallow back the lump in my throat and follow suit, tears threatening to fall from my eyes.  
It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at  
funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you  
love.

I watch her carefully and wonder what's going through her head. She looks so strong  
and so brave up there, but I'm still in danger of running up to the stage, grabbing her hand,  
and running away with her. The urge to protect her overtook everything in me causeing me to shake with anger.  
Haymitch chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate her. "Look at her. Look at this  
one!" he hollers, throwing an arm around her shoulders, "I like her! Lots of . . . "  
He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!"  
he says triumphantly. "More than you!" he releases her and starts for the front of  
the stage. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting  
the Capitol? I'll never know because just as he's opening his mouth to continue,  
Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

He's disgusts me and I groan, looking back to Katniss. I see an odd expression  
cross her face, and for a second it looked as though she had some kind of  
emotion or expression for what's going on. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared,  
it had gone.

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie Trinket is trying to get the  
ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbles as she attempts to  
straighten her wig, which has listed severely to the right. "But more excite ment to  
come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous  
hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that  
con tains the boys' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to  
the podium, and I don't even have time to decide whether to volunteer to protect Katniss  
or not when she's reading the name. "Peeta Mellark."

Peeta Mellark? The name rang a bell, but I couldn't place it. I know Katniss had talked to  
me about him at some point, but I chose to ignore it because I didn't like hearing her talk  
about other boys. I can't help but feel jealous, as crazy as it sounds. Oh wait! I remember  
it now. He's the baker's son. I feel a bit of pity for the old man, and turn to see where he is.  
The baker has always been kind to me. Making sure I had plenty of bread of some kind when I  
bring game in, no matter how much I caught.

I remember before I met Katniss, I had taken to doing chores for the baker in exchange for stale  
and burnt bread. Anything to make sure my family was fed. I spotted him in the crowd and saw his  
eyes on me. I know what he's thinking. He's wondering why it isn't me. I told him a few days ago how  
many times my name was in. He knows that I should have been the one pulled, but I don't see too much  
anger... Just sadness.

Pit overwhelmed me because all I can think is that I want Katniss  
to win more than anything. Which means she would have to kill Peeta. I break my gaze away and continue to contemplate volunteering, but I know if I do, Katniss would never forgive me. Someone has to make sure both of our families are fed. If only it had been the other way around. I would volunteer to take Rory's place in a heartbeat had it been him. Today, I consider the odds to not be in my favor.

After all, if it had, the girl I love wouldn't be standing on that stage.


End file.
